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“Well, no. But it’s not that sort of place.”
“Looks like that sort of place.”
She blew out an exasperated breath and started in. “Try for a degree of optimism, sir. We’ve not encountered a whit of trouble as yet.”
“The night’s still young, my lady.”
There’s trouble, and then there’s female trouble.
It was the sort of trouble that involved pulling a pretty widow into the shadow of a doorway and kissing her silly. His brain—obviously disordered by the idiocy of this expedition—insisted on kicking up images of sweeping Samantha off her feet and having his way with her.
You’re a moron.
“It’s just at the other end of the laneway,” she said, oblivious to his deranged thought processes. “I thought it best to come around the back way. Less likely to run into anyone.”
“Except the poor souls who live in the tenements.”
“Most of them have the good sense to remain inside after dark.”
Samantha lifted her skirts to avoid a pile of garbage before stopping in front of a three-story building. At least this one looked slightly less grim than its neighbors.
“And we’re here,” she said, pointing to a cellar entrance.
A short staircase led to a door several feet below street level. A lamp in a half-window to the left of the door sent feeble rays into the stairwell. A faded sign swung from the bracket over the door. Braden was just able to make out the wordsWeeandDog.
“I know this place,” he said.
Samantha cast him a surprised glance. “You’ve been here?”
“No, but my twin brothers know the proprietor. Emmy Fraser, correct?”
“Yes. How do they know her?”
He took her arm to escort her down the steps. “Long story. I’ll tell you sometime.”
She smiled. “From what I’ve heard of the twins, I imagine it’s an exciting one.”
“So exciting that I hope Miss Fraser doesn’t strangle me when she finds out I’m a Kendrick.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” Samantha replied as she opened the door.
“I’m counting on it, because right now I’m quaking in my boots.”
When she giggled at his lame joke, a warmth invaded Braden’s heart that he’d not felt in a very long time. It was a clarion call to warn thathewas bashing headfirst into trouble—not the villain-with-a-club sort but the female sort, which was infinitely more dangerous.
They stepped into a narrow room with a low, timbered ceiling. A counter ran along one side of the room, and from behind it wafted the enticing scents of coffee, cinnamon, and fresh-baked bread. The furniture was plain—roughly hewn tables and benches—but the floor was swept and the service counter orderly. The Wee Black Dog was far from fashionable, but it was a respectable coffee house that served the locals who worked in the nearby markets.
A young woman with a kind face and a wealth of red hair barely crammed under a mobcap was stacking plates behind the counter. The only other occupant was a man sitting in the corner reading a tattered book. The broad-shouldered fellow had a nose that had obviously met more than a few fists. When he glanced up from his reading, he subjected them to a gimlet-eyed stare. After Braden gave him a friendly nod, the fellow let his gaze linger for a few beats before returning to his book.
“Dinna mind Joe,” said the woman. “He’s just here to keep an eye on things.”
“I’m here to keep an eye onye, Emmy,” Joe said in a gruff voice.
Emmy rolled her eyes as she reached below the counter and brought out two glasses and a corked bottle. “As if I need a man to protect me.”
Joe calmly turned a page. “Ye’ll nae be walkin’ these streets at night without me.”
“You listen to Joe,” Samantha said as she lifted her veil. “I’m terribly late, and I hate to think of you walking home by yourself.”
